


How quiet is the night

by Caivallon



Series: once upon a time... [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dark, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 23:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18679234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: He would look like a bird, Auston thinks. Like a starving little bird fallen from its nest.If it weren’t for his eyes.They are huge and so, so dark that they appear black. Framed with long lashes, they stare up at Auston with an expression unlike any he has ever seen. Young and old at the same time, ageless and knowing but quivering with fickle emotions—a different one every new second.





	How quiet is the night

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something nice and fluffy after the loss against the Bruins...somehow this happened. I’m ~~not~~ sorry... 
> 
> This is my first story about this pairing that has grown up on me so much in the last weeks. 
> 
> Since I'm not a native speaker please be gentle with me and if there are still some mistakes it’s all my fault, because [ **Bee**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) was a wonderful and encouraging beta as always. Thank you so much, honey ♥ 
> 
> I don't mean to disturb or hurt someone but I'm not good with tags and ratings and I also don’t want to give too much away from the start, so please tell me if I should include warnings. You can also check the end notes for a more detailed warning.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it.
> 
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> [](https://imgur.com/CjQbfqY)

**How quiet is the night**

 

It is already dark when Auston arrives at the playground. The sun set about half an hour ago in a flash of pinks and oranges, with purple clouds dotted over the sky like cotton flakes. It was very beautiful, but not enough to distract him from the storm of thoughts and emotions raging through him; the panic of his fast heartbeat that screamed at him to get away. _Away_. 

And so he did. 

After sending a quick text to Bre that she should stay with her friend overnight, he pockets his phone to pull out the crumpled pack of cigarettes he snuck from his dad's stash and lights one. His mom will be at work until midnight, and her route from the bus stop will bring her past the playground. 

He inhales deeply and tries to ignore how much his hand is trembling, with its bruises and bloody knuckles. Tries to calm down. 

Everyone is safe. ~~At least for now~~.

The rusty gate is open and squeaks loudly in the quiet twilight when he closes it with a soft kick. It’s not that someone cares that he is hanging around here after dark. No one in this neighborhood cares.

 _No one ever cares_. 

A small sand mold - shaped like a tortoise - lies forgotten on the ground. He kicks it, sends it skipping over the cracked concrete until it lands next to the trash. 

When he looks up he notices for the first time that he’s not alone. 

On one of the swings sits a boy: feet dangling in the sand, arms curled around the chains, head hanging down. Auston doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s never seen him before. Annoyed and intrigued, he walks over, expects the boy to look up. 

But he doesn’t; doesn’t even flinch when Auston stands directly in front of him and waits—it’s impossible for the boy not to have heard him. Taking another drag and blowing the smoke at him, Auston hopes to get a reaction: his patience today is very limited and this is his place, his safe haven when he wants to be alone, when he needs to hide. 

Who is this guy daring to disturb it? 

“Hey, get up.” 

The chains rattle when Auston grabs one of them and shakes it heavily until the whole swing wiggles and the boy has to tighten his hold so he doesn’t fall down. His knuckles turn white around the iron and his fingers look very spidery. It’s a strange thing to notice, just as strange as the shiver that runs down Auston’s spine when the boy finally raises his head and meets his eyes. 

Even in the cold light of the street lamps it’s obvious that something is terribly wrong with him; that he is drugged or sick, clutching to the last threads of life just like he’s holding onto the iron chains of the swing. 

Auston’s gasp rips through the eerie silence on the playground. There is no rustling of leaves or chirping of birds, no humming of cars: a silence of emptiness, of sadness. 

The boy is startlingly pale—unnaturally so with dark bags under his eyes, with hollow, sunken cheeks and sharp bones as if he has neither slept or eaten well in weeks. His hair is messy and dull, hasn’t been washed in days, just like the thin white shirt that is all too big on him and stained with dark splatters on the front. 

He would look like a bird, Auston thinks. Like a starving little bird fallen from its nest. 

If it weren’t for his eyes. 

They are huge and so, so dark that they appear black. Framed with long lashes, they stare up at Auston with an expression unlike any he has ever seen. Young and old at the same time, ageless and knowing but quivering with fickle emotions—a different one every new second. 

Anger. Anxiety. Bliss. Despair. Hope. Insecurity. Playfulness. Resolution. 

And pure unshielded _hunger_ that strikes Auston like lightning. That tells him to run, to hide. To get away and never look back. 

But he can't. He's frozen in place and trapped by those eyes; by the helplessness in them, the innocence and the vulnerability. 

The thought of leaving, of abandoning the boy is as impossible as crushing a bird with broken wings under his heel. 

His hands drop to his sides, boneless, before he's able to gain control over his body again, his limbs and his voice. Aware that the boy is watching every single one of his actions, he carefully raises his hands, proof that he's not armed, that he only wants to help and not hurt. Then he drops the cigarette and snuffs it out in the sand. 

"Are—are you…okay?" He barely recognizes his own voice; too raw, too wounded. And he wants to hit himself because he asked something stupid like this. "I mean, is there anything I can do to help you? Are you sick?"

The boy just holds his gaze. Unfathomable. 

“Should I call your parents? Or emergency?”

Suddenly the boy laughs; such a loud and bright sound that Auston can’t believe it’s coming from the weak kid in front of him. For a few short moments he’s afraid the boy went mad or is taunting him, or that this whole set up is a trick to distract him and the next second someone will tackle him from behind, rob or beat him up. 

But the smile is too happy, too stunning and too beautiful to be anything but real. 

It's so beautiful that he doesn’t even care anymore if it’s a trap. His whole body feels warm and light and Auston instinctively steps closer to the boy, so close that he could touch him, that the boy has to look up at him. 

Then the smile is gone - as suddenly as it appeared - and replaced by the same expression of misery again: like a bucket of ice water has been doused over him. Auston shivers. 

He wants...to see it again, wants to help the boy, wants to be the reason he smiles again. The urge is so strong that he reaches for the boy's hand, touches the back of it with cautious fingertips; it feels clammy and cold but smooth like porcelain. Concern fills the void in his stomach. 

“What’s wrong…? Please, tell me what I can do to help you.”

A head shake, followed by smile. But this has nothing to do with the delighted one from before. On the contrary: this smile is pure sadness and Auston is sure he’s never seen anyone look that miserable and helpless. ~~Not even his mom~~. 

The boy pulls his hand out from underneath his and Auston has to swallow his protests, wants to hold that hand, imagines that his warmth could seep into the boy's freezing and shockingly soft skin. 

' _Like silk, like cream, like honey_.' Auston has no idea where these thoughts are coming from—only that he has never touched anything like this. 

"You…you can't—help me." The boy cradles both of his hands in his lap, tugs the long sleeves lower so that they completely disappear in the folds of the grey fabric. "And you should go…you have to leave right now before—"

He stops mid sentence, bites down on his lower lip so hard it turns completely white. So hard Auston is afraid he might draw blood. It looks painful and the boy looks so tortured that he has to blink, to tear himself away from the image. Has to close his eyes to just _think_. To keep himself from gathering the boy in his arms and shielding him from…whatever it is that he's scared of and scarred from. From the demons chasing him.

When he opens them again the boy is standing upright, no longer seated, intending to get away, to flee. But he’s still holding onto the chain, using it for support, like a lifeline. It's obvious that he wouldn't be able to stand without it, obvious that his legs will give up the second he puts his full weight on them. (He's too weak.) 

It’s so obvious that Auston moves without thinking. Ready to catch the crumbling body before it hits the ground he rushes forward to gather the boy in his arms. 

Heavy. And still too light, almost weightless. 

It reminds him of when he first held his baby sister in his arms: so fragile and helpless, so precious. But he is not prepared for the hands pushing at his shoulders, pushing him away. 

"You shouldn’t touch...You—you have to go away. _Please_. You smell so good I—”

Maybe he’s delusional. Maybe it’s because of the exhaustion clouding his mind that his words make no sense to Auston.

"You need help.“ Auston knows it’s not fair to use authority on him. To use blackmail on him. He wants the boy to trust him, to allow him to help, to shift closer against him and press that face into his chest and seek comfort. This is not a random kid in high school he bullies for money or into writing his essays. And he doesn’t want to, but the boy leaves him not other choice. 

A part of Auston is surprised at himself. At how much he cares. (About anyone who isn’t his mother or his sisters.)

“You either let me help you or I’m calling the police.” 

The boy whimpers and starts to shake his head frantically, claws his fingers into Auston’s chest; his eyes widen with blank fear and despair. It’s so intense and painful that Auston’s heart clenches, that he can literally feel it in his chest in the form of an ache he has never felt before, worse than any other physical hurt he’s ever experienced. 

Those old pains Auston can block out: bruises and scratches and dislocated joints. He’s ~~almost~~ numb to them by now.

But this? And the knowledge that he frightened this boy so much that he’s stricken with panic?

“Shh, nono, I don’t want to, just…”

“Blood, I need...please.”

“Blood?” Auston has no idea what he’s talking about. “Are you hurt? Have you been attacked?”

“No...I—I need blood. I’m a vampire.” 

“You’re a...you’re fucking with me.” 

"…am not." Just a whisper. Maybe he doesn't want someone to overhear even though there is no one around. Or maybe he's ashamed. Yet he never averts his eyes; they are wide and pleading—more and more desperately. 

"Please…if you don't—you wanted to know. But I get it."

"It's hard to believe. Impossible."

That makes the boy smile; nothing but a small twitch in the corner of his mouth. Almost amused. 

"Yeah. So…I understand that you don't want to help me, but can you…please go, then?" He shifts and twists until he's free of Auston's arms, kneels in front of him.

Auston is unable to read the look on the boy's face, in the dark, dark eyes. Again, there are too many emotions flickering through them: resignation, sadness and something that could be relief. 

"And leave you here to die?" His voice is hoarse, heavy with cynicism.

"Probably. Still better than having the police find and lock me in another nut-house. At least here I'm free." The boy shrugs, and the smile widens to a real one that should make Auston feel better. Only that he can't appreciate it, can't even really grasp it. He’s too horrified by the image of the boy dying alone, of the boy being dead, of someone finding his dead body here and thinking he's nothing but a drug addict. Whatever the boy _is_ …Auston can't let this happen.

"What do you need me to do?" He lifts his hand, examines his burst knuckles: the blood is almost dried. The boy's nostrils flutter with interest, his gaze sharpens. It shouldn't be so thrilling. ~~But it is~~. "Can you…? Will this be enough?" 

Just like the flicker of tongue that licks over the chapped and too pale lips. 

The sad head shake. 

"No…I'm afraid not, it would just be enough to really wake my hunger." 

"You'd attack me then? That's why you want me to leave?" Auston tries to imagine it. The slender arms fighting him, the bony fingers pressing down on his throat or scratching his face, the light body crashing against his. He has no doubts that he couldn't overwhelm the boy; he is strong, a fighter—used to defending himself since he entered high school, learned to strike back not long after, trained to wield his body as a weapon now. It helped that he grew tall and broad, that he spends hours and hours a week to play rugby and lifting weights and running track. 

If this isn't a trick and the boy isn’t as weak as he acts, he won't stand a chance against Auston. 

But the boy just laughs; almost as amused and bright as the first time followed by another of those blinding, soft smiles. 

"No…I'd never—I'd never do that, I promise. I only drink from people who allow me. I won't ever force you. I've never done that…or why do you think I'm on the edge of dying." 

The spark of hope in those dark eyes is fascinating: beautiful and warming Auston from the inside. It's so easy to believe him ~~and so tempting~~. It makes the image of the boy dying even worse. Unbearable. 

"What do I have to do? Do you—do you need to bite me? Will it hurt?" He fumbles for his sleeve, pulls it back, proud that his hands don’t tremble as he watches the boy's eyes stare at the stretch of soft skin on the inside of his wrist. Watches him lick his lips again before he pulls himself together and sits up straighter. 

"No…and yes. No, I won't bite you, but yes, it will hurt. Do you have a knife?" 

"Y—yes." 

(A sleek butterfly knife, black and silver, that he always carries with him when he leaves the house at night—no matter how hurriedly he has to.)

"You'd have to cut yourself, just a small line, but it would have to be deep—"

"Why don't you just bite me?" 

Auston can't shake off the image of the boy's teeth piercing his skin, of the boy holding him tight so that he doesn't flinch in pain. It's hard to imagine, especially as the boy kneels in front of him now, the hands on his thighs almost completely covered with the long sleeves of his oversized hoodie, fingers twitching with nervousness. Messy strands of hair falling into his eyes that have been trained on Auston since he first spoke to him and never left him once. He's the picture of misery and looks so honest and open and innocent with the plush lips and the too big mouth in his small face. 

(Like he couldn't ever hurt anyone.)

"Because I don't have teeth to do it." He snaps playfully at Auston, clacking his teeth and giggling after, but it only lasts a second— just a hollow gesture before he shrinks back into himself. Everything in his face begs Auston to not ask and so Auston doesn't. Not today. 

"So I have to cut myself and then you can drink from me?" 

"Yes, basically."

"And you'd stop when I tell you to." 

"Yes. The second you're not feeling well or uncomfortable, no matter how fed I am." 

Auston believes him. Believes every word he says. It's the craziest shit he has ever heard and still, he believes the boy. Maybe this makes him the crazy one. But eyes like this couldn't lie, and every emotion they reflect seems so real. No one can be that good of an actor, no one can fake that level of despair. 

He nods. Gets the knife from his pocket and shows it in his open palm, lets the boy touch it with a tentative tip of his finger.

"Why does a boy carry a weapon like this?" 

"I'm not a boy, I'm 15. And it's for protection although I've never used it so far." 

' _But I know how to_.' 

"Because you fight with your fists instead."

The boy closes Auston's hand around the knife, makes him turn over his hand to inspect the cracked knuckles carefully. His breath tickles where it hits Auston's skin, but it’s cold and soothing like an ice pack. It's nothing against the feeling of the boy's lips when he ducks his head and touches the burst flesh—a touch that is barely there but hits Auston like a freight train. That makes his blood run fast and his heart beat so loud that he thinks he's going deaf. That runs through his whole body and sets alight every single nerve and cell. 

When he feels a curious, wet little lick of tongue he gasps in surprise. Gasps because nothing has ever felt that electrifying, that good. Because nothing will ever feel that good again. Goosebumps spread over his arms and he feels hot all over. From the touch, from what he's about to do. 

"What happened? Did you get into a fight at school?" Another lick. 

"Can't imagine anyone daring to fight you." Another kiss. 

"You're so strong." The mouth wanders over to the next knuckle. 

"Can't imagine anyone _wanting_ to fight you." And the last. 

"You're so sweet and kind." 

Auston can't speak; he’s having too much trouble focusing on breathing to form words, to think words that are not lies or the truth. His image in the boy's eyes is so tempting—he almost wishes it could become true. And just when he's finally composed enough to object, to snatch his hand away so that he can think again, the touch ends and the dark eyes look up at him; all innocence gone.

"And you taste sooo good. Even better than you smell." 

Replaced with pure hunger and bliss. 

It should frighten Auston. It should. But instead it thrills him, makes him feel happy and needed by someone who's not family or one of the girls at school filling the bleachers and wanting him just because he's the captain of the rugby team. The words the boy used to describe him—they were so very wrong but…Auston can't let him down, can't stand the idea of the boy not looking at him like this again.

He withdraws his hand and swirls the knife around, opening it with a flick of his wrist, the gleaming silver blade dangerous and beautiful against his skin. 

"Are you really sure that you want this?"

"Yes." Auston is sure.

The sharp steel slides through his skin without any resistance at all, so smooth and fast that it's not even painful, leaving behind a gaping line that at first is the palest hue of pink. Then red droplets appear like deadly pearls, growing bigger and bigger until they shatter and fill the gap, so fast that it immediately overflows. And that's when white-hot pain hits him. It explodes like lightning in his head and feels like ice in his veins. 

Auston gasps in surprise, inhales sharply. His body is shivering. 

And at the same time he's…floating with relief, with a sick sense of pride when he raises his eyes and looks at the boy, when he presents his cut wrist. Nods at him to go on, to drink. 

It should be sick, it should be disgusting to see the soft lips close over the wound, to feel the cool tongue lapping carefully over his skin: tickling and caressing but never touching the edges of the ripped flesh, just drinking the blood like a cat would lick milk from a bowl, making sure not to waste any, to not make a mess. 

Auston's arm is trembling. The cut is throbbing, sending waves of pain through his whole body, but he can't take his eyes from the boy's mop of hair, from the pale side of his face and the bony fingers that hold his lower arm. It's the first time that the boy isn't looking into his eyes and Auston misses their weight on him, the emotions in them. He’s curious if they are even darker now, if the lashes are fluttering with bliss. If his taste makes the boy happy. 

He doesn't know why - maybe only to keep himself busy, to distract himself from the numbing pain - but he buries his right hand in the tangled strands of hair, combs his fingers through them as well as he can and massages the fragile neck. The boy starts to hum softly, leans closer against Auston when he finally stops drinking and looks up at him, licking his blood stained lips. 

"How are you feeling?" 

“How are _you_ feeling? Dizzy?" 

"Yeah, a little bit." Auston hadn't even realized it. "But if you need more…"

"I should have more—haven't eaten for a while. But I can't drink more from you."

"I can take it." 

The boy shakes his head, smiles at him before lifting Auston's hand that he's still holding onto. The blood flow has stopped mostly. "I can't drink more from this because the healing process has already started."

There is a dark smudge in the corner of his mouth and Auston wants to tell him but instead he leans forward and rubs it away with his thumb. Shows it to the boy and watches him suck it into his mouth, tasting that last trace of Auston’s blood.

"You taste really _really_ good." 

"Are you sure that's not just starvation speaking?" He teases but his cheeks are hot and he desperately hopes that's not the reason. 

"Trust me, I've been on the edge of dying often enough to distinguish." The laugh is so cute and amused, doesn't sound weak at all anymore. The bags under the dark eyes are almost gone and the fingers around Auston's wrist are warm and no longer cold. "It's like a three star restaurant compared to McDonald's. That's how good you taste." 

He says it as if it's nothing. As if his words don't make Auston feel more warm and special than anything else he's heard for a long time. As if his words don't make Auston wish for stupid things…like wanting to know more about him; why he's here and all alone, how he's going to get by. 

"You can have more." 

"I really can't…it's too dangerous for you. I took a lot." 

How he can be so fucking happy and caring and sweet when he had been so miserable and weak before? He's almost radiating joy, now that he's apparently not starving anymore and visibly feeling better. Hand still holding Auston's, head turned up and eyes on him, sparkling with life even in the darkness of the playground until his brows wrinkle with worry.

"We have to patch you up. Wait."

And then he lets go of Auston and gets up and Auston wants to yank him back, keep him close, even if it's just for a couple of seconds. The boy brings his backpack over from where it had leaned beside the swing; cheap and worn out, it looks every bit as shabby as the boy's clothes. Looks as if it holds everything he owns. He rummages around it and piles up everything in his search for some medical kit (a pair of jeans, some shirts, boxers, a small toiletry kit and an old book). 

"Sorry, haven't used it for a long time. There it is." He gives Auston an apologetic smile. 

"You haven't eaten in weeks?" 

A shrug. "Not everybody is as nice as you." 

This time Auston laughs. It's a harsh laugh at the beginning, thick with cynicism and self-deprecation, but then - as the boy starts to treat his wound with soft warm touches and movements - it becomes a real one. Loose and happy. 

"Trust me, I'm not nice. Like, not at all." 

"You were to me. To a homeless kid that you found on a playground that you didn't know anything about and that told you the craziest story ever. Trust _me_ …not many people would get out their knife and cut their wrists for someone else." 

Auston watches him as he dabs the wound with a wet tissue, so careful and gentle that he barely even touches it, cleaning the area around before taking a small slip of gauze and putting it over the gap. Everywhere his fingers linger on Auston's skin he feels warm, feels it seeping into his flesh and spreading through his body like summer rain. He holds his breath even though there is no longer any reason to. The pain has numbed to a low throb, no longer a fierce burning sensation. 

"I'm not like many people." He says. Because it's true, but mostly only to say something to get the boy to watch him again. 

"I'm glad." 

"Why don't you just bite people? Why do you only drink from them only if they offer?"

"I—" The boy stops, chewing on his lip before he averts his eyes and reaches for a roll of bandages and starts to wrap it around Auston's wrist, and then Auston knows that he said something wrong, that the question was too personal and made the boy comfortable.

“ I don't want them to suffer, or at least know why they do. I want them to have the chance to decide." 

(He wants to take it back, to make him smile again.) 

"You can drink from me again tomorrow." 

The boy blinks, his lashes are long and dark against the skin of his cheeks. He is pretty like this, shy and almost demure as he kneels in front of Auston and looks up at him with hope in his eyes and hands of silk. Coy and cat-like when he licks over his bottom lip and sighs as if he could still taste Auston there. 

"You'd…you'd do that?" 

He sounds incredulous, as if Auston is doing him a favor.

 ~~As if Auston wouldn't do anything to see him again and help him~~.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I…I can't offer you a sleeping place but I'd come here tomorrow night at the same time."

"Don't worry," the boy fastens the knot on the bandage but doesn't let go of Auston's hand, just puts them back into Auston's lap tentatively, both of his thumbs rubbing slowly over Auston's knuckles. "I get by. I always do." 

Images flash in front of his eyes: of the boy sleeping on a park bench or on the ground under a bridge, huddled in his oversized clothes, curled around his backpack with his precious belongings. It might not get cold in Arizona during the nights, but that doesn't mean that it's not dangerous for a boy at his age. Someone could find him and rob him, someone could find him and call the police. Could find him and do unspeakable things to him. This part of town is not a safe place, Auston knows better than anyone. 

This part of town is built on poverty and envy, on hunger and hate and on greet and despair. No one should be out at night, especially no one who looks like this. 

He curls his fist, suddenly blind with anger again. But his house is one of the least safe places around. 

"You shouldn't just get by. You're too young." 

"Shh," A finger on his lips. "I may look young but I've been around quite a while. Trust me…I can take care of myself. Now that I ate and got some of my physical strength back." 

"How old are you?" 

"131. We... we don't age after we've been bitten." 

"And how old…?"

"Fifteen. I know I look younger, but I'm not a boy anymore." 

He smiles. This wide and blinding smile that makes Auston feel warm and safe and wish that he could stay like this forever. But then the boy stands up and offers a hand to help him, too. It's surprisingly strong when he pulls Auston up, probably meant to show him that he can take care of himself. 

"I'm Mitch, by the way." 

"Auston." 

"Nice to meet you." 

They sit down on one of the benches, close but not touching as they share a cigarette. Talking and laughing quietly until Auston can hear see the bus arriving at the bus stop in the distance. His phone tells him it's almost midnight and that his mom probably will be on this bus. 

"I have to go." 

(He's not sure if he ever wanted anything less.)

"Don't worry about me." 

Mitch's hand brushes over his lower arm first, then his whole body leans against his; warm…so very warm and soft even though he's nothing but skin and bones. Then his lips slide over Auston's cheek; hot and electrifying and the best thing he's ever felt. 

It doesn't stop tingling and burning on his skin the whole way back home alongside his mother, while he carries her bag and listens to her talking about her shift at the gas station. 

It doesn't stop, not even when he's lying in bed later and touches the spot with his fingertips, too scared he’ll forget about it the second he doesn't touch it. With his heart throbbing like crazy inside his hollow chest, torn apart with hope and fear that everything wasn't real, and that when he wakes up the wound would be gone and Mitch only the most beautiful dream. 

 

__

 

Thank you for reading. ♥ 

 

[ **Tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/)  


**Author's Note:**

> Mitch is a vampire but he doesn’t have actual vampire teeth so he can only drink from people if he cuts them. Since he doesn’t want to hurt people he doesn’t drink from them without permission.  
> There is some detailed description of Auston cutting himself with a knife so that Mitch can drink from him and some hints about Auston’s father abusing him and his mother.


End file.
